


Found and Lost

by jedishampoo



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dick Jokes, M/M, Temporary Amnesia, only a little shippy, showing the establishment what they think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Locke and Jean lose their memories and have a little adventure in Tal Verrar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found and Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic/gifts).



> Set before the main events of Red Seas Under Red Skies. I know you said you liked fake marriage, but I hope a nice little temporary amnesia trope will be to your liking as well. Happy yuletide!

 

He fought wakefulness, but wakefulness fought back. The daylight that tried to creep under his eyelids, the sound of gentle snoring, and the insistent jut of his own erection all served to drag him from sleep, regardless of what he wanted.  
  
His head ached to match the throb in his cock. He suspected a hangover.  
  
Muzzy-headed as he was, he became aware that he was not alone. He was draped over a warm body, nestling his interested cock against it. And he was not the one snoring.  
  
After those realizations two more quickly followed: one, that he did not know the person with whom he was sharing a bed, and two, that he wasn't even sure who he himself was.  
  
It was one hell of a hangover, then. He screwed his eyelids more tightly shut and willed himself to go back to sleep until memory returned. But his heart had already stuttered and alertness raced through his veins; whoever he was, apparently he had instincts that told him this situation was cause for alarm.  
  
Thankfully those instincts also seemed to allow him to approach the situation with calmness and not send him jumping from the bed shrieking. Rather, he cracked an eye open and slowly peeled his arm off the person to get a better look at them.  
  
It was a man who lay facing away, still snoring. The man was a stranger. He was slender and blond-haired, and wore only a white silk tunic, drawers, and on the ends of his bare, pale and skinny legs, white stockings. Only half-dressed, but more dressed than their situation might suggest.  
  
He himself was attired similarly. Did he sleep with men? He supposed he must, given the erection. Aha! A clue, however useless.  
  
He inched across the bed away from the warm figure, slowly and carefully, until he felt his back leg hang over the side of the mattress. He rolled with exaggerated care until he was more or less sitting upright and let himself examine his surroundings.  
  
He — they — seemed to be alone in a high-ceilinged, spacious room. A door was opened into another, darkened room. Across from them a large window was hung with forest-green curtains, drawn apart a couple of feet or so — the source of the blasted sunlight that had woken him and even yet taunted his aching eyes. It illuminated the room's unfamiliar but rich decorations: muted landscapes, hanging on bird's-egg blue walls ringed by cornices painted a deep cream color. There was another bed that looked unslept in. The furniture in general was black and gold, a little too gilded for his tastes. At least he had taste? Which meant he had memories somewhere. A name, perhaps.  
  
One piece of such furniture, a low, claw-footed table, held a few opened wine bottles and two glasses. Both of them were drained. Aha! Another clue: the source of the hangover.  
  
He could just hear the faint sounds of city bustle from outside. Yet he still had no idea where he was. Obviously his drinking was becoming a problem. His first lesson of this newborn, nameless day.  
  
He eased off the bed, trying not to wake his companion until he knew enough, at least, not to offend. The mattress jumped a little when it released his weight — it seemed he himself was a fair-sized fellow — and the man's snoring choked off into a low groan, though his eyes remained closed in apparent continued sleep.  
  
The next logical destination was the looking-glass hanging on the wall. Unfortunately, it revealed nothing but an unknown and somewhat blurry face, a black-haired and curly-bearded man who could have been anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. Perhaps it was just the dark circles of dissipation beneath his eyes that made him want to err on the far side of thirty?  
  
He spied a pair of optics sitting on a shelf next to the looking-glass, lying among a scattering of coins and other pocket detritus. He plucked the optics off the shelf and tried them on with shaking fingers. His heart soared for a brief moment when they fit perfectly and his own reflection came into better focus, but unfortunately they revealed nothing more than minor detail. The face frowning back at him was as unrecognizable as ever. His chest tightened with disappointment.  
  
That emotion edged into full-on panic when he heard the man on the bed stir. "Mmmm, what time is it?" the man said. Then, "Where am I?" And after that, "Who am I? And who the hell are you?"  
  
He turned to meet the wide-eyed gaze of the man on the bed. He cleared his throat. "It's funny you should ask. Because I was, uh. Hoping you could tell me."  
  
"Who I am or who you are?"  
  
"Both."  
  
The man's eyes narrowed and his slender fingers curled in the bedsheets. "Are you fucking telling me you don't know who you are?"  
  
"Doesn't seem you know any better!" he replied, stung by the man's derisive tone.  
  
The man sighed with apparent disgust. "True." His gaze traveled down, then back up, and then he abruptly swung off the bed and ran for the darkened room, pulling a sheet from the bed with him. "One moment, please."  
  
The door slammed shut. Once glance down was enough to show that the man had caught sight of the bulge in the front of his drawers. He felt his cheeks warm, but then chuckled. Things were a little too late and a little too fucked up to worry about morning wood!  
  
He took the opportunity, however, to search out the trousers that must be his, somewhere among the jumble of clothing scattered about the floor and on the dreadful furniture. Eventually he found a larger pair that fit him except in the crotch. They were a shimmering blue that didn't seem his style, though he supposed he didn't know that for sure. The pockets offered no aid or identification, only a few random coins. Then he looked for the time. It was already noon but hardly felt like it.  
  
A couple of minutes later, the other man emerged from the second room. He was not wearing the sheet.  
  
"I was pissing glitter. Damned odd," the man said, then nodded. "Chamberpot's free. Would you like to, uh, take care of that?"  
  
"Sure," he replied. He took a route around the edges of the room, watching the man, who'd begun his own search of the clothing on the floor. "Um. You're being very calm about this."  
  
"I'm as jumped up as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. But frankly, I'm more concerned about the state of my own head and what's not going on in there than I am concerned about you. Or do you have designs upon me that you're not telling?"  
  
"No," he replied, not mentioning the fact that he might be worried as well; the difference in their respective sizes was apparent to both of them. He sidled into the second chamber. Once inside he relieved himself at last, listening with concern to the thumps and curses coming from the other side of the door.  
  
When he exited, sans wood, the man was kneeling by the table, shuffling through some folded-up bits of paper. "Shit," the man said.  
  
"What is it? Did you find anything?"  
  
The man shook his head. "Nothing that makes any sense." His eyes were bright, almost fevered. The lie had been calling him calm; once conscious, the man showed an almost manic energy in every movement. "I can apparently read, though, which is a good sign that I haven't lost it all and am about to go shitting in the street like a horse. Can you?"  
  
"Shit or read?"  
  
"Don't be an idiot."  
  
"I haven't tried." There was a book sitting on the black-lacquered surface of a side-table and he picked it up, curious. Yes, he could read. "Oh, look. It's Lucarno's _Celestial Mysteries_."  
  
"Utter crap. Must not be mine."  
  
He met that with a raised eyebrow. There was nothing wrong with the _Mysteries_. "How do you know any of it is yours? These could be my things, in my room, in my city. Wherever the hell that is."  
  
"What, and I'm last night's lay? Don't think so, 'cause I don't feel laid for one thing, and for a second, this is just too weird, that both of us have partial memory loss. Unless you're not as clueless as you look and are just really good at playing it?"  
  
That earned the man a glare. "Stranger, will you take it wrong if I tell you that you seem like an ass?"  
  
The man tilted his head and bit his lip as if considering. Then he shrugged. "No, I don't feel very angry about it. Seems I'm used to it."  
  
That brought out a laugh, and the man grinned back at him. Was that squeezing in his chest a fond familiarity, or did his comfortable mirth merely hold back a rising edge of panic? Not knowing oneself was like a nightmare come true. Or perhaps he'd spent his life in this state. He'd never know otherwise, would he? Maybe the world had gone mad. It didn't really matter, because there didn't seem to be much he could do about it.  
  
The man seemed to be reading his mind. "I figure we're in this together and should work together for now. If we just keep looking, methodically, we'll find some clues to this, ah, situation. And then we can discover how to end it. For example, I have found a jacket that fits me, and it has pockets in the most bizarre fucking places."  
  
"I found these optics and sort of stopped there. But you have the right idea." He took a deep breath; giving up had been the wrong one. "Why don't you keep looking through our ... the things, and I'll check out the door over there?"  
  
The man narrowed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. "Go for it. You're big enough to deal with any threat, I'm sure."  
  
Hopefully there was no threat. He opened the door onto ... a hallway, like in a rooming house. And, on a plate set on the floor, cookies. The cookies were decorated like two men, one smaller with yellow hair, and one larger, with black hair and a beard. His stomach rumbled. He hadn't noticed until then that his hangover headache was gone and his appetite had returned.  
  
"Um, there's a hall. It looks like we're in a boarding house. And it seems we do know each other, at least," he said, carrying the tray with the cookies over to where the man sat on the floor next to the table. On the way he jostled the tray and the two man-cookies collided and joined at some bits of frosting. They looked like they were holding hands. They were smiling.  
  
"Holy hells, we do. Or this is some sinister fucking joke."  
  
"They look pretty innocent. They look ... happy. And tasty."  
  
The man rolled his eyes so hard it was a surprise they didn't just stick there. "Did you see anyone?"  
  
"No, but that's given me an idea. I'm going to brave the hallway again. I'm ... I'm coming back."  
  
The man gestured with a wrist-flick as if to say _have at it_. Was he showing a remarkable amount of trust, when running like hell was an option? Nah. All the things, presumably his or his or their things, were in the room.  
  
He opened the door again and started to creep down the hallway as if expecting a threat, then decided that was silly; best to look as if he belonged there. Around a corner he spotted his next new person of that new, nameless day, a man in working blacks. He was holding several platters. Of cookies.  
  
"Excuse me?" he called. The steward turned and then smiled very widely.  
  
"Master de Ferra! Good morning. It's, ah, very early for you — is something the matter? Can I assist?"  
  
De Ferra! A name at last. Now he just needed a few more of them. "No. I mean, yes. I mean, no, but ... have you seen my, ah." _Roommate? Brother? Husband? Last night's la_ y? "Partner?"  
  
The steward pursed his lips and tapped his chin in thought. "Master Kosta? No, I must say I haven't, not since yesterday. Is he missing? Would you like me to make inquiries?"  
  
De Ferra — he had a name, hooray _—_ shook his head. "No thank you. I'm sure he'll turn up, like he does. Thank you, ah—"  
  
"You're welcome, Master de Ferra. Anything you wish. Oh! The lemons you requested. They'll be delivered this afternoon." The man bowed and returned to distributing his guest-cookies.  
  
"Thanks," de Ferra said with a shrug, and returned to the room, the only home he'd ever known. When he opened the door, he grinned at Kosta-presumably's inquiring look. "I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?"  
  
Kosta tilted his head. "I'll take 'em in whatever order you're dishing 'em out."  
  
"Good answer. First, the bad news is that so far we seem to be the only ones affected by this ... whatever, which suggests it's personal or unlucky circumstance, and the world has not just gone fucking crazy. As for the good, I have names."  
  
Kosta's eyes gleamed. "Gimme."  
  
"Last names only, but I'm de Ferra, and you are most likely Kosta."  
  
"Aha! And I have here a note signed by Jerome de Ferra, and a receipt written to Master Leocanto Kosta." Kosta waved some well-folded-and-unfolded bits of paper at him.  
  
"Jerome, huh? I don't feel like a Jerome." He'd had other names running through his brain, but they hadn't felt right for him, either.  
  
"Leocanto is pretty ghastly as well, so I'm with you there. So what are we to each other?"  
  
That was a good question. Jerome admitted, "I asked the steward after my 'partner.' That could encompass a lot of relationships. Business associates. Friends. Er, lovers."  
  
Kosta nodded. "I wasn't sure I was into men, but we were mighty cozy this morning, de Ferra, and considering the raised flags ..."  
  
Jerome grinned. "The burgeoning truncheons?"  
  
"Ha ha! The snarling stiffers?"  
  
"The old stand-bys?" Jerome suggested. His belly was going to hurt from laughing. That, or he was going to cry.  
  
"The prides-of-our-pants?" Kosta added with a snort. "Obviously, we're younger than we appear, if well-versed in crude language. But you can call me Leo."  
  
Jerome bowed, feeling the giggles melt away, leaving something not-uncomfortable. "Jerome, at your service. Shall we settle for being fellow researchers at the moment, trying to discover the arcane secrets of our identities?"  
  
"Sounds good."  
  
"Oh, we have lemons coming."  
  
"Lemons? Whatever the hell for? Wait, what's this?"  
  
Leo had lifted one of the wine bottles and was pouring it into one of the glasses. Jerome's hangover made a brief return as he gagged in his throat. "You think that drinking more will bring our memory back?"  
  
"No! Not that I hadn't considered that. But look at the wine. Remember when I said I was pissing glitter? Did you?"  
  
"Truthfully, I didn't notice. It was all kind of dark and, uh, I didn't want to look," Jerome said. He edged closer. The bottle Leo poured yielded only a few red drops, but they were red drops with strange bits of ... of silver in them. Jerome couldn't recall ever drinking such a wine before, but then there was a lot he couldn't recall.  
  
He picked up one of the other bottles, which were all from the same vintner, and upended it into the other glass. That wine, and the wine from the next bottle, appeared more or less the same. He adjusted his optics to read the bottle more closely.  
  
"Cerise Echivigny. Wait!" Jerome frowned as he noticed something else odd. The label on the bottle that Leo had poured didn't look quite right. He grabbed the bottle and pricked at the edge of the label with his fingernail.  
  
"Don't do that! You'll tear it," Leo said, jumping up. Jerome noticed that he still did not have on any trousers. "Essence of orange will loosen that label."  
  
"We have lemons coming. And how do you know that?"  
  
Leo stared at him. He lowered the hand he'd raised to grab the bottle and his expression, which had been intent and alive, loosened into something that looked almost forlorn. "How the hell do I know how to read? How the hell do I know anything?"  
  
"This is fucked up, isn't it?" Jerome said, feeling hopelessness gnaw at him again. Obviously he'd not been like this his entire life; he'd never have been able to bear it.  
  
"Beyond belief."  
  
Jerome stared at the window, the walls, nothing, fiddling with the bottle and poking at his own memories a bit, something he'd been too hungover to do at first and too busy discovering small things to do since. He could speak, walk, talk, knew who Lucarno was, but as for where and how he'd grown up, his family, his home? It was like those things had been removed, leaving empty spaces in his brain, voids that slipped aside when he poked at them with mental fingers. It could be nothing but deliberate. But who had the power to do such a thing?  
  
He heard Leo sigh with almost theatrical volume. "Well. Sitting around here isn't going to solve anything, is it? Let's go out. Ask some questions."  
  
"Maybe that's what they want," Jerome said. Then he said, "shit," because he'd torn part of the label anyway.  
  
Leo took the bottle from him. "Fuck 'em, whoever they are. And whoever we are, it's apparent that you're the clumsy, moping type and I'm not. Let's get dressed."  
  
Jerome shook himself out of his useless reverie and managed a smile. "I'd argue with that, but proof is against me."  
  
Leo narrowed his eyes at him and hugged the bottle, stroking it as if he were comforting a small pet. "All right, little clue, let's hide you, keep you safe until we have time to examine you further." He headed for a wardrobe in the corner and pulled it open. He turned back to Jerome and gestured inside; it was full of clothing, in at least two very different sizes. "If you needed further proof that we've been staying here together ..."  
  
"I didn't," Jerome said, realizing it was true. Somehow he and Leo had just ... started off trusting one another. Whether that was normal or not, he had no idea.  
  
Leo stashed the bottle in a boot standing in the bottom of the wardrobe. Then he began pulling out clothing. "The plainest we can find. It won't hurt us to not be peacocks for a morning."  
  
"I think I prefer that anyway," Jerome said, shaking off the last of the mopes, for hopefully the last time. He caught the black trousers Leo tossed at him and began to shuck off the silvery blue pair he was wearing, then hesitated.  
  
"I've probably seen it," Leo said with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"True," Jerome laughed. It didn't mean they were ... or were they? Lovers? He wondered how he felt about that. He watched Leo pluck out some grey clothing and hold it against himself. As far Jerome's available memory of good-looking men went, Leo wasn't one of their number. He was plain, almost nondescript, in fact. But he had a great deal of energy and a strange charm.  
  
At least Jerome had a companion in his haze of non-memory, and that was worth far more at the moment.  
  
Once dressed and somewhat groomed, if still a little dark under the eyes, they sorted through the most visible of the coins and other belongings.  
  
"The volani suggest Tal Verrar," Leo said. "And no, I don't know how I knew that."  
  
Jerome chuckled. "I'm thankful to all twelve gods that someone does."  
  
"Maybe I'm more in the know on this stuff? A money dealer? A merchant?" Leo suggested.  
  
"And I'm the muscle," Jerome said, for he'd found a pair well-used-looking hatchets in the nightstand drawer. Their balance seemed familiar in his grip, and combined with the strange harnesses inside the back of his coat, it seemed they belonged to him. He practiced stowing them against his back and retrieving them.  
  
"Those are some nasty-looking boys right there," Leo said.  
  
"No, these are definitely ladies. Saucy ladies," Jerome smiled, pleased with his aha-latest-clue.  
  
Leo dug through more papers. "Name them, then. You seem the type."  
  
"Hey. You talk to strange and suspicious wine bottles."  
  
"True."  
  
While Leo finished sorting the immediately useful things, Jerome ate one of the cookies. He chose the one decorated as him, in case it might impart its knowledge. It didn't, but it was as tasty as promised. Leo waved off the offer of the him-cookie, so Jerome ate that as well.  
  
"You're kind of thin. You should probably eat more," Jerome noted through a mouthful of cookie, then wondered why he'd said it. It seemed awfully personal.  
  
"You didn't seem to mind last night," Leo said.  
  
Jerome choked on a cookie crumb. "You remember last night?"  
  
"Hell, no." Leo was standing before the looking-glass, picking at his sunny hair and scowling at something it was doing or not doing. His gaze met Jerome's in the reflection and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "I was being a smartass."  
  
Jerome gaped. Was Leo flirting with him? And was the warmth that spread through his belly outrage or humor, or was he turned on?  
  
"Well, you might cut the smartassery once we're out in the world," he managed to mumble.  
  
"Never fear. I'll be mild as a lamb. The smartassery is all for you," he said, and Jerome decided to ignore that.  
  
They locked the room with a key Jerome had found and tested in the door. By unspoken agreement they walked with cautious but confident-looking steps down the hall. They located a staircase and descended; after three flights, they emerged onto an expanse of plush, wine-colored carpet. A balcony along one side overlooked a lobby. They shrugged at each other and stepped down the central staircase.  
  
A short, rotund man wearing optics smiled at them from behind a podium. The manager, likely. "Master Kosta! I see you have returned. Master de Ferra was looking for you earlier. And it is early!" he said.  
  
"Ah, yes. I was, er, visiting elsewhere," Leo replied, smooth as milk. Both of them had a gift for small lies, it seemed. Then Leo pulled a wine bottle — one with an untorn label — from under his jacket, and Jerome wondered how he'd not possibly seen it stashed there. "Say, can you tell us about this wine we had last night?"  
  
The manager raised his eyebrows. "The — was there cause for concern?"  
  
Leo shook his head. "Not at all; it was lovely. We had several bottles, and I feel fresh as a newborn babe."  
  
"Oh, yes," the manager said with visible relief. "The Villa Candessa serves only the finest wines. That is from the vineyard of an old friend of mine. His soil is exceptionally rich, heavy with metals, precious and otherwise. Have you not heard of that vineyard in Talisham?"  
  
So _they_ were from Talisham? Hearing that felt strangely empty and anticlimactic. The soil explained the silver in the wine, at least. Maybe. Jerome interjected, "Of course, but we've been unlucky so far as to've never tried it."  
  
"Ah! It was delivered by The Presence."  
  
Leo started a little in surprise, though it was so subtle that Jerome was sure that only he saw it.  
  
"Pardon — the what?" Leo said.  
  
The manager shook his head as if clearing it. "Er, it was a sample, of the new production. A few crates were delivered earlier this week. I do not know if you number wine among your speculations, gentlemen, but if you were interested, I could provide you with the direction of Echivigny's agent."  
  
"Please do," Leo said. "Though we may use it at a later date, because as you see we are dressed for exploring this morning. What I'd like right now is a map of the city if you have one. Oh! And we're working on a project. Please don't have anyone clean our rooms while we're out."  
  
If the manager was surprised at such odd requests — who knew how long they'd been staying at the Villa Candessa— he covered it well. He nodded and snapped his fingers and a woman dressed in black disappeared into the back. She returned a few moments later with their map.  
  
They exited into a courtyard, and beyond that, onto a cobbled street. A few steps took them to the top of a nearby hill and from there they could see clearly see their position on a long, curved island. To the north, south, and east they were surrounded by the deep blue of the sea, and to the west, curling gently southwards, the rest of their island, the vista blanketed with red-tile-roofed buildings and stubbled by bridges and bits of green. Off in the distance, the other end of the island was punctuated by an outcropping — of rock or otherwise — ringed with gold and topped by a black spire.  
  
"Looks like a destination," Jerome said, nodding at the distant tower. It definitely drew the eye, more than any of the other wonders surrounding them.  
  
"It does. But not yet." Leo opened the map and Jerome hovered. The map was proprietary, and the Villa Candessa was clearly marked on their end of the island in a district called Savrola. He noted the tower was called _Sinspire_. Leo tapped the villa's sigil, closer to home. "Handy for us Talishani tourists. But Talisham, though it might be everything, feels like a great bunch of nothing to me."  
  
"Me also," Jerome said, and if he'd needed any more proof of their shared affliction, that nearly exact voicing of his own thoughts would have done it.  
  
"First we need to find an alchemist," Leo said, running his finger along the paper, tracing first the outer and then the inner islands of Tal Verrar.  
  
Jerome fought the urge to hug Leo and instead pointed near the center of the map. "The Alchemist's Quarter?"  
  
But Leo shook his head. "I don't know who knows us or where we've been. I say we start somewhere more disreputable."  
  
"Disreputable. Huh," Jerome said. He pointed at another spot on the map, somewhere between an area marked _Istrian Crescent_ and one called _Emerald Galleries_. "How about ... there?"  
  
"It's all new to me," Leo said.  
  
They walked down to the shore and then took a water taxi through the islands, admiring the sunshine and the scenery, relearning the bits of the city they passed and, in Jerome's case at least, hoping for another clue. Had he — had they — entered that building there, or walked in that park, or visited that astonishing glass dome?  
  
They arrived on the inner part of the new island and walked vaguely north and east towards the unknown terra Jerome had proposed. The people they passed were mostly working folk, clothed simply and going to and from one errand to another, but now and then they passed some finely dressed gentlemen and ladies out for a stroll. Everyone ignored them, which suited Jerome fine.  
  
Along one sidewalk, however, they passed not two feet from a cloaked and hooded figure, who smiled at them from over a pointed beard.  
  
"Morning," Jerome said.  
  
"Gentlemen," the hooded man said, inclining his head the tiniest bit. And as he passed, Jerome would have sworn he heard the man mutter "bastards" and then chuckle.  
  
Something about that had sounded very personal. And somehow relevant. "So do we have enemies?" Jerome asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the hooded figure.  
  
"I'm sure we do. You have those saucy ladies with you, right?"  
  
"Yes," Jerome said, shrugging against their weight.  
  
"Let's hope you know how to use 'em."  
  
The Istrian Crescent seemed to be a residential area, and a rather grand one at that. Nearer to the Emerald Galleries, however, the taverns and shops came a little more quickly and thickly. Most of the former were closed — Jerome thought that maybe Tal Verrar was a city that came alive at night. The villa staff had certainly been surprised at their early rising, and that had been nearly the middle of the day.  
  
They both spotted the alchemist's at the same time. It looked a tiny and dark place, squeezed in between a closed coffeehouse and a store that sold little clockwork pets. Or pet toys, perhaps? They knew it was an alchemist's because of the sign, which took up practically the entirety of its storefront: GRAND OPENING. ALCHEMIST. GOOD. BY APPT OR WALK-IN.  
  
It looked disreputable enough, so in they walked. Inside it was as dark and poky as promised, made to seem even smaller by its relentlessly black-painted walls and counter and midnight-blue curtains. A small girl, looking like a ghost floating in the gloom with her pale hair and white dress, gasped as they entered and stared at them with wide eyes. Then she yelled "Pardon! Grandfather! Gentlemen!" and ran off behind a (black) curtain.  
  
"Gentlemen. Bastards," Jerome said with a chuckle.  
  
Leo suddenly gripped his arm, his fingers wrapped so tightly that Jerome could feel his nails through the coat material. "What did you say?" Leo breathed.  
  
"Um. I said gentlemen ..." Jerome trailed off as he thought about it.   It had seemed such a natural thing to say, but was that because of the strange man they'd passed, or was there something else, something significant?  
  
"Bastards," Leo said. As Jerome watched his eyebrows drew down, and then his claw-grip upon Jerome's arm relaxed. "It felt for a second like ... I don't know. But let me do the talking."  
  
"It seems you always do," Jerome said, still bemused.  
  
They were interrupted by the appearance of an ancient, bearded man. Dressed all in black, of course, and cloaked but not hooded. Apparently this was Grandfather, though between his long, silvery beard and mop of hair, his skin was as dark as the girl's was pale.  
  
"Welcome. I am Dostremus. How can I help you?" the man said, giving a creaky smile that seemed rarely used.  
  
Leo shook his head as if clearing it, then pulled a coin out of his pocket and slapped it on the counter. Jerome's eyes widened along with Dostremus's, and he wondered if Leo knew the value of the coin he'd produced. Likely, he did, being the merchant or speculator of the two of them, after all.  
  
"I wish an immediate and above all private consultation," Leo said.  
  
"Er. I'll lock the door," the man said.  
  
Once that was done and the man was returned behind his counter and all attention, Leo got to the point. "Can you tell me, is there an alchemical substance that can be ingested and can induce partial memory loss?"  
  
Grandfather scowled and shook his head. "This is a house of good," he said.  
  
"So we gathered." Leo's grin could have matched the old man's for falseness. "We don't want to purchase it. We wish to discover if evil has been perpetrated. A matter of honor."  
  
The man tilted his head and looked at them, back and forth and back again, as if considering their clothing and the status of their honor. "Can you tell me more?" he asked, eventually.  
  
Leo straightened. "We're brothers of Talisham. Calo and Galdo Salvara—" he paused as he caught Jerome's expression of shock. His mouth hung open for a moment, and then he recaught the rhythm of his speech. "Er. Visiting from Talisham. My brother here woke this morning with no memory of self. As you can see, he's quite dumbfounded."  
  
Dumbfounded, indeed. Jerome did not know if his heart would ever start again. Calo. Galdo. Those were among the names that had swum through his head earlier.  
  
But Leo and Dostremus were staring at him. "I ... I can still read," he managed to blurt. "And, er. Walk and talk?"  
  
"Perhaps a substance, hidden in wine by someone who wished him harm? Is there such a thing?" Leo said, leaning one elbow on the counter. "It may make you piss glitter. Galdo, you were pissing glitter, correct?"  
  
"Uh, yeah," Jerome said.  
  
Dostremus shook his head and shot a sad look at the golden coin on the counter. "No, Ah, nothing I know of," he replied, slowly. "A certain dose of Duskveil blend would deaden the mind and leave one drooling like a babe until it wore off a day or so later. But I would not sell that. And there is nothing alchemical so focused, so specific. I fear I cannot help you."  
  
"Is there an antidote to duskveil?" Leo pressed, and Dostremus sighed. He pushed the coin back at Leo.  
  
"You young people have many excesses. Perhaps you should visit a physicker. Excesses and, er, illnesses do not merely affect the corpus but the mentis as well. Stresses of life in the big, exciting city, perhaps?" He made his way around the counter as he spoke, walking to the door and unlocking it.  
  
"An antidote would be for good!" Leo cried. "We pay well!"  
  
"I do not care if you piss gold coins. Scamps remember what They choose. Goodbye," Dostremus said, holding the door open and pointing out with a stern-looking finger.  
  
Jerome tugged at Leo's sleeve; he wanted to talk. Alone. Thankfully Leo nodded assent and they exited. Dostremus closed the door behind them and Jerome heard the click of the lock.  
  
"Scamps? Choose? Old, putrid fart," Leo said, making a rude gesture at the shop's sign.  
  
Jerome shaded his eyes against the sudden glare of the sun after the blackness of the interior, and noticed his own hand was shaking. "It. Ah. Seems random names come easily to us," he managed to say.  
  
Leo's gaze focused on him, became intent. "Those weren't random, were they?"  
  
"I don't think so." Jerome took a deep breath. "They seem important, somehow. But they're not really ours. Am I even a Jerome?"  
  
Leo shrugged. "Who knows? We'll figure it out eventually and remember who the Salvaras are. I don't think they'd mind us borrowing their names."  
  
Jerome managed a shaky laugh. "I wonder if we were ever actors in our past lives?"  
  
"Not you. You're a fine straight man, but that's probably it. So!" Leo rubbed his hands together. "Another alchemist. Every damned one, until we find an answer that isn't mysterious."  
  
"No. Next is food," Jerome said. Leo had that frenetic, bright-eyed look again, like dealing with Dostremus and his weirdness for good had brought out ... something. That something that made Leo — well, Leo wasn't repellent, per se, but there were limits to Jerome's endurance.  
  
Leo's eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Food? What if whoever-it-is is following us? Waiting to feed us some nonexistent evil substance?"  
  
"So what? You said it yourself: fuck 'em. We have no choice but to live normally until we figure something out."  
  
"What even is normal for us?" Leo said with a glare, but the light of determination in his eyes was fading into something more calm.  
  
It seemed to Jerome that he was not only the muscle, he was also the common sense. His stomach chose that moment to growl. Audibly, bless it. "Food," he said with what he hoped was a smug grin.  
  
Surprisingly Leo smiled back, then hooked an arm through his. Jerome decided it felt nice to be right. To be together. Or maybe not.  
  
"Gods, I hope you're not plotting to betray me, because I like you," Leo said as they started to walk, arm in arm.  
  
"Same here. All of it," Jerome said.  
  
They strolled the district, encountering no more insulting, hooded figures. They did finally encounter a tavern that was open.  
  
First they visited the public facility out back, down an alley that ran alongside the tavern. There they encountered a man that seemed to be sleeping in a corner of the alley, next to a fountain built to a likeness of Perelandro. The man was cradling a bottle of wine and wearing rumpled but not inelegant evening clothing.  
  
"Some city. Surprised he hasn't been relieved of those," Jerome noted.  
  
The latrine was dark and well-used and above all, tiny, so Jerome went first. He did his business and when he exited, Leo had been joined in line by the erstwhile sleeping drunk.  
  
While he rinsed his fingers in the fountain and waited for Leo to take care of his own business, the man glanced at him guiltily from bloodshot eyes. "D'ye have the time?" he mumbled.  
  
"Perhaps a little after three?" Jerome hazarded.  
  
The man sighed in apparent relief. "Plenty of time, then."  
  
Leo exited and looked at Jerome and the man with a wide smile full of teeth. "This is some city, you're right. Running water for everyone, and I'm still pissing silver. Though it's slowing down a bit. How about you?"  
  
"Told you I wasn't going to look," Jerome said with a fake gag.  
  
"But you could be missing something valuable!" Leo cried. He splashed his hands in the fountain as well; Jerome hoped that was its purpose and that they weren't committing some sort of sacrilege. He somehow thought that Perelandro wouldn't mind.  
  
"'S'magic," the drunken man gurgled, stumbling off to take his turn at the facilities.  
  
Inside the tavern a tall, grizzled-looking man with scars on his arms greeted them and led them to a table. It seemed they had the place nearly to themselves; if there'd been a lunch rush, it was over. A few well-dressed types chattered loudly from across the room in a booth next to the window, and two lone men hunched over the bar, drinking their dinners.  
  
"Besides, the glitter seems easily explained. And I don't think Grandfather Dostremus was lying," Jerome said, perusing the printed, crinkled menu.  
  
"Nah. But he could have been omitting something. Ew, apricots," Leo said.  
  
Jerome shrugged; the point was moot. The man who'd seated them returned with two mugs of something that looked dark and cold.  
  
"Sweet ale. Specialty of the house," the man said and plonked the mugs, foaming, on the table. Leo side-eyed the ale but told the man to bring him whatever the special of the day was, except apricots. Jerome ordered the same.  
  
When they were alone again, Jerome very deliberately picked up his ale and took a long, hearty gulp, watching Leo the entire time. It was good, nice and cold and not too sweet. Leo rolled his eyes but he drank from his own mug soon after.  
  
Perhaps their trust in food choices or their plain clothing made them seem approachable? Whatever the case, while they waited for their food, the scarred man returned and seemed inclined to linger and chat. Soon he'd discovered that they were brothers of Talisham, told them they looked nothing alike, and learned further that this was their first visit to this side of Tal Verrar.  
  
Leo, it seemed, was not one to miss an opportunity to glean information of his own. "So, what's up with that black tower on the cliff across the bay? The Sinspire, is it?" he asked the man.  
  
"Yeah. Gambling hell. Posh as hell gambling hell. On a whole hill of gambling hells. It's famous; surprised you ain't heard've it," the man told them.  
  
"Maybe we should check it out, Calo," Jerome said, feeling his heart squeeze a little at saying the name — where had he heard it, how did he know it, dammit?  
  
The man roared a hearty laugh. "You'd need a line of credit as long as this street to even get in to the first floor. Told ya it was posh, didn't I?"  
  
"Exclusive, huh?" Leo said.  
  
The man wandered off, still shaking his head at their cheek. Jerome chuckled. "Wonder if we have the money to get in?"  
  
Leo leaned closer across the table, a bit of that madness back in his eyes, and replied in a low voice, "Definitely we should check it out. I felt something when I looked at it. So did you."  
  
"Yeah," Jerome admitted. It wasn't only its flamboyant appearance that had drawn his eye. "We'll go after we eat."  
  
"Stay away from it, said the Presence." The owner-bartender-whatever-he-was had returned with their food.  
  
Leo glanced at his food, then at Jerome, and then narrowed his eyes at the man. His voice when he spoke was slow, cautious. "So. What's this presence, anyway, that we keep hearing about?"  
  
The man's face was blank for a moment, then he guffawed. "What? Who said anything about presents? Ain't nothing free here but the conversation. Haw haw." And again he wandered off.  
  
"Ha ha," Leo said, scowling at his ale.  
  
"Listen Locke — I mean Leo — I mean Calo, shit," Jean shook his head at his own fumble-tongue. "I'm starting to think you're not crazy about the consp—"  
  
"Why did you call me that?" Leo interrupted, staring at Jerome with a gaze as pointed as tigershark spears.  
  
"A slip? My tongue stumbling over Leo Kosta?" It had felt right for a second, but then he doubted himself again. The harder he thought about it, the more he felt it slip away. Talk about locks: his brain felt like it had chains on it. "Chains," he said aloud, not knowing why he said it.  
  
"Now that was random," Leo said, slumping back against his seat and picking up his ale. "But for a half a second, it seemed significant. Gah! All I have is instinct and a head full of everything except everything important."  
  
"When the stomach is empty, the mind cannot find comfort elsewhere," Jerome groused. He shook his head from its thoughts that ran into nothingness and picked up his utensils to poke his food. The special seemed to be some sort of roast land animal, with potatoes on the side and a plate of grilled eels in the center of the table.  
  
Leo tilted his head at him. "Is that from one of the romances?"  
  
"Republic of Thieves."  
  
"Amadine," Leo sighed. "Maybe we are actors."  
  
"I wish I knew what the play was," Jerome said, and then speared a potato on his fork. The food was simple but good, and more than welcome after their afternoon of running around. The man-cookies in their room had been tasty, but they hadn't filled his gut worth a damn.  
  
And he had a decent-sized gut, too. He wondered if he should do something about that. But then, Leo didn't seem to mind ...  
  
Food was only one carnal pleasure. The body had all sorts of needs, and they were all one as the mind became weak. That wasn't from anything but his own head, he suspected.  
  
"I suspect magic," Leo said from around a bite of eel.  
  
Jerome stared. "You spurn the romances but take advice from drunks? "  
  
Leo took a few moments before answering. His gaze seemed fixed off in the distance, out the window, perhaps. "What do you know of the Bondsmagi of Karthain?"  
  
Jerome shuddered. "Not much. I somehow know that no sane person would fuck with them."  
  
"Well, present state excepted, I'll venture that we're not insane and would therefore not fuck with them."  
  
"I'll continue existing under that presumption, thanks," Jerome agreed. The alternative didn't bear thinking about.  
  
They didn't linger over their food; when they were full, they arose and prepared to leave, with one final joke from the tavern-keeper as they paid him. "Here's your change. You'll need it if'n you're going to the Golden Steps, haw haw," he said.  
  
"Thanks for the advice," Leo said, tossing a couple of coppers back at him.  
  
Outside the sunlight was a little more slanted, less midday-intense. Leo did not take his arm and Jerome did not presume. They stuck close, however, keeping an eye out for strange presences, Jerome twisting his shoulders against the weight of the sharp girls on his back. The city had come alive with the approach of evening, and shopkeepers and serving men and ladies were sweeping steps and airing out their businesses.  
  
Leo was mumbling, a strange chant that punctuated their steps down to the quay where water taxis waited. "Calo. Galdo. Salvara. Chains and bastards and presents and glitter. Sounds more like a holiday in a house of dark pleasure than a set of clues."  
  
With his stomach satisfied, Jerome's thoughts had relaxed somewhat. "A garden of bloodthirsty glass roses," he said out of nowhere.  
  
"What's that from?"  
  
"No idea."  
  
A small, six-person taxi was bobbing in just as they arrived at the end of the dock, and they waited, Leo fidgeting while Jerome gazed around, trying to let his brain go where it would. He looked at the water, the way it was gray nearer the shore and blue farther out. It reminded him of sultry days. Of home. "I — we — are not from Talisham," he blurted.  
  
Leo whipped around to face him. "Where are we from? No! Don't think. Just say it."  
  
So Jerome said the first thing that slipped from his brain to his tongue. "Camorr."  
  
"Yesss ..." Leo closed his eyes and sighed as if in a spasm of pleasure. "It feels right. Ah, Camorr. I wish I could remember more of you."  
  
"They have five towers, I hear. Or maybe I remember." Jerome waited to say more until the incoming passengers had disembarked and he and Leo had boarded and could sit close in a semblance of privacy. "So why the whole Talisham thing?" he asked Leo in a low voice. "All the names? What's the play?"  
  
Leo leaned in and spoke out of the side of his mouth. "It's not a play. It's a game, and at the moment we're not running it. The house is in control."  
  
"You sound like you've thought this out."  
  
Leo turned to grin at him. He was very close, and his teeth were very white. "Wait, I just had another thought. Here's the game. Say random shit that pops into your head. You seem prone to it."  
  
"Hey, I'm not the only one," Jerome said.  
  
"Just do it!" Leo looked so excited that Jerome couldn't help but play along.  
  
"Austershalin brandy," he said.  
  
"A long tradition of taking people to Drunkland very expensively," Leo said in Vadran.  
  
"And enjoying every moment of the trip," Jerome replied in the same language. "Did we know we could speak Vadran?"  
  
"No, but it seems like a handy thing to know. Good on us for learning," Leo chuckled. They were thrown together briefly as the as the taxi bounced out upon the waves. The sea around here made Jerome feel so small, like ... like a man-cookie, jostled in its dish. Canals were more his speed. _Camorr_.  
  
"Um, Sofia oranges?" Jerome said.  
  
"Ah, definitely I've had one of those, though I'm not sure it's a good memory," Leo said. "Still, good thought. Uh. Lessee. Black boots with silver spikes on the toes."  
  
"Ooh," Jerome said. He could almost see them in his mind's eye, though not who they were attached to. It was related to something sad, whatever it was. He let his mind's eye drift, seeing if it would alight on a happier memory. "Breakfast in the kitchen, looking out a bow window, down onto the street."  
  
Leo closed his eyes and bit his lip, then shook his head. "Hmm. Nope, doesn't ring a bell."  
  
They passed the ride in much that way, trading random thoughts and being mostly in agreement but not always. One thing they did agree upon for sure was that they were making progress. Something inherently "them" was coming back, even if only in little bits and pieces, their lives trickling back like water from a crack in a dam.  
  
Almost too soon they reached 'their' island, on the far end from where they'd started their excursion. They discovered from the taxi rowing crew that they did not have enough money on hand to ascend the cliff the short way from the sea, via the cabled platforms. They'd have to walk the Golden Steps if they wished to reach the tower.  
  
It was a long way up. They alit and stood for a moment, looking at the twisting, switchbacking path up the sloping side of the cliff. It was half unnatural material and half natural rock, and the entire way was lined with buildings and trees and people, clinging to every exposed crag and jut. Except at the very top, where the black, gleaming tower stood as a smoothly dark sentinel.  
  
Jerome looked over at the early evening light slanting on Leo's hair, his distant, upward gaze. The mental picture came unbidden to him of Leo thin, broken, bleeding. He smelled a ghost-scent of sea and sewage.  
  
Impetuosity had served them well so far, so he didn't think, just grabbed Leo's hand. Leo didn't seem surprised at the gesture; he turned to look up at Jerome with his eyes widened only slightly, accepting but inquisitive.  
  
"Can I—" Jerome swallowed. Leo's hand was warm. "Can I say again that I'm glad you're here with me?"  
  
"It seems only right," Leo said quietly. "I think we've been together a long time."  
  
The way he was looking up at him ... Jerome's heart stuttered with something like memory, but also with something new. Something they'd created between the two of them in the short hours they'd had already. It seemed for a moment that they were in one mind, that a kiss might be nice. At least, Jerome thought it might be. He wanted to capture a taste of Leo's energy.    
  
"Move along," a voice said from behind them, and they sprang apart and twisted to see who'd called. It was a watchman, shaking his head at them.  
  
"Can't a couple of guys just get close without any trouble?" Leo asked the man with a grin.  
  
"Take it home, boys," the watchman said, with an expression that looked more wryly long-suffering than really pissed off.  
  
"We'll take it to the top," Jerome sighed. Time to make for the tower. It was beginning to feel something like a holy pilgrimage, something necessary. He wished he'd had a kiss first, but then, they did have room in a nice guest-house ...  
  
So up they pilgrimed. It was a long walk. They stopped halfway for an ale at a corner bar that let patrons stand outside and enjoy the burgeoning life of the streets. Jerome watched the people, many calling to one another as they saw someone they recognized. Would someone call to them? If they did, would they be friend or foe?  
  
Soon they started up again, to make use of what was left of daylight. At one point Leo's head cranked in a half-circle, his gaze following a passing woman with improbably red hair. "I know I've seen that woman before," he said. "And that I speak Throne Therin."  
  
"So do I. A useless skill, as far as I can see. Still, it's more than we had this morning." Jerome's heart ached a little. "But it's ... What if the tower means nothing? What if we don't even figure it out today?"  
  
Leo waved a careless hand at the pair of them, or more specifically, their heads. " _This_ is already coming. So we'll stick together. Rest. Start again tomorrow. Check out counting houses, see if we have accounts somewhere."  
  
It wasn't only his heart that had ached; Jerome took a deep breath to ease the stitch in his side from climbing. "We can afford the Villa Candessa. Maybe we can also afford to go the short way up next time."  
  
At last they reached the top, and Jerome saw that they still had a short walk to the entrance, along a little bit of cultivated green space. At least it was flat.  
  
Up top there were more guards as well as little knots of people, most grandly dressed but some not. These hovered in little clusters, chatting, some looking at maps.  
  
"Tourists. We should fit right in," Leo noted.  
  
The tower seemed to suck away the daylight. Shouldn't glass reflect? Jerome had always thought that was one strange thing about the Elderglass here in Tal Verrar: it was cold, calculating, not like the rich colors of home, the towers that brought light even as the sun dipped below the horizon ...  
  
"Wait!" he cried, stopping along the path. "We've definitely been here before. Inside."  
  
"I know. Where's the red carpet?" Locke said with a bit of a sneer.  
  
"The establishment does not open until sundown," a voice with an affected-sounding posh accent called down at them. It was another guard, this one in the colors of the house.  
  
"We're just looking," Jerome said.  
  
"Come back when you're dressed like gentlemen. A ha ha ha," the guard said, looking to his comrades for shared amusement.  
  
"Ah hah hah yourself," Leo said. "Taunting the commoners. Jean, look over there. He has the right idea."  
  
He pointed to a corner, tucked between a stone wall and a hedge. A man in rich clothing was pissing against the wall. Without speaking further they sidled over to stand on either side of the man, unbuttoning their trousers and letting the establishment know what they thought of it. The man, a thin, sallow type who wore his hair in fat, curling ringlets, looked back and forth between them with wide eyes. Maybe it had something to do with his sneak-piss being discovered, or maybe it was their gangster-serious attitudes; regardless, he finished his business and scuttled off.  
  
Jean and Locke finished and grinned at each other. "The scamps will be back," Jean said.  
  
"We have the clothing. We have the lemons," Locke said with a grin, and then of a sudden his face went pale, as if all the blood had drained out of him with his piss. His mouth hung open. "Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh _shit_. Lemons. Lord Landreval. The game. The game, us — oh hell, Jean."  
  
And in an instant Jean realized that yes, he was Jean. He knew that, and other things, things that had always been there, except when they hadn't.  
  
"Oh, fuck," was all Jean could say.  
  
Locke grabbed his hand again. There had been a lot of that today, but this time Locke wasn't reminiscing or being gooey. He was running, pulling Jean with him.  
  
"The room. We have to — hah — get back. Have to regroup. Figure out what happened, what's happening in my head."  
  
Jean knew what he meant, because it was happening to his head, too. The bow window; it had been when he was small, with his parents. The rest of it came backwards, no longer a trickle of memories but a rushing cascade. Tal Verrar. The game. Vel Virazzo and Locke all half-dead and before that, the Grey King and—  
  
"Fuck, the Bondsmagi," Jean moaned, hardly able to breathe for the running.  
  
"I know. Assholes," Locke huffed.  
  
On they went, heedless of the cries of the passersby they shoved out of the way, and oh, all day Jean had wished and wished for his memories back, and now he had them, he wanted them gone again.  
  
They stopped to catch their wind at the bottom of the steps, both of them bent over half to the ground and breathing heavily. Then Locke started running again.  
  
"Calo. Galdo. How could we?" he called back, his voice sounding choked. Jean could not see his face; it was all he could do to keep up. Damn his gut, anyway. Oh, gods.  
  
"We didn't know. It's not our fault," Jean breathed. Those stupid boots on Nazca Barsavi's little feet. "I forgot Chains. And my own parents."  
  
"The Nameless Thirteenth. Argh, and Bug. I fucking forgot the existence of Bug," Locke called back as he turned down a less-crowded alley shortcut. "He'll haunt me for sure for that one. And oh, shit, _Sabetha_."  
  
Much as he loved Sabetha, Jean had always thought it wouldn't hurt Locke to forget her a little more often for his own peace of mind. But not like he'd done today. Someone powerful was fucking with them.  
  
"Fucking Bondsmagi," Jean spat again, with what little breath he had left.  
  
It was full dark and Jean was sweaty and hurting all over when they finally reached the Villa Candessa. They staggered inside, waving off the concerned cries of the staff, and made for the back stairway. Jean was sure that if they made it back to their room alive, and if they lasted more than a minute in there, he'd make a vow to never take lifts and public transportation for granted again.  
  
They did reach the door of their room at least. Jerome's hand shook when he dug in his pocket for the key. Finally he found it and passed it over to Locke, and then he removed the Wicked Sisters from their places against his back. "There could be anything happening in there ..." he cautioned.  
  
"We'll meet it head on. Together," Locke said, his grin more manic than Jean could remember it being in a very long time.  
  
And inside was ... everything as they'd left it. Just as they'd asked the villa staff to leave it. Though someone had left the promised basket of lemons on the table next to the door.  
  
Locke shook an alchemical light by the door while Jean skulked the walls and checked the anteroom and the closet for threats. There was nothing. Nobody.  
  
"Are they just fucking with us? Having fun?" Jean suggested as he locked the door to the hall and relaxed his guard. He'd expected full-scale destruction of fireball proportions. A little ransacking at the very least! But the only ransacking had been done by their memory-less selves that morning.  
  
Locke was pacing, thinking. Then he raised his finger at Jean in an "aha!" gesture. "The bottle. The one with the funny label ..."  
  
He made for the wardrobe while Jean fetched a lemon. He tossed it in the air, then took a swipe at it with one of his hatchets. Hell yes, he knew how to use 'em.  
  
Then he sat on the bed, the one that was still made. Oh, yeah. "Um. Locke, a lot of weird stuff happened today. If it was anybody but you, I'd be pretty embarrassed right about now."  
  
Locke grinned, clearly calmer now that he had a focus, something to do. "I'm not going to worry about it. Are you?"  
  
"Uh, no," Jean said. Lied a little, if truth be told.  
  
Locke sat cross-legged on the floor and cradled the wine bottle in his lap. He rubbed it gently with the sliced edge of Jean's practice-lemon. "Besides, we might have been pretty good like ... well, like that."  
  
"You think so?" Jean felt a little better about putting the moves on his friend in that case. Still, it wouldn't hurt to think extremely unarousing thoughts for a few days.  
  
After another minute or so, Locke grunted in satisfaction. "Got it." He smoothed out the edge of the label that Jean had torn earlier, and then slid his sleeve-stiletto along the gluey bit between the paper and the glass. The label slid off the bottle. He looked at its underside and his eyebrows drew down. Then he showed it to Jean.  
  
"We choose," Jean read aloud. And as soon as he'd done so, the label vanished into smoke.  
  
Locke gasped, and then he said, "Perelandro's balls, I'm tired."  
  
"Me, too," replied Jean, and then he said no more.  
  
***  
  
Jean woke next to somebody. He wasn't awake enough yet to remember who, but whoever it was, they were warm and his cock was hard and pressed up against them.  
  
Daylight was knocking at the door of his eyelids, and Jean tried to screw them more tightly shut so that daylight would fuck off. His efforts were fruitless, because he was already awake and only getting more so.  
  
"Mmmm," he said, opening his eyes slowly to get a look at his bedmate. When he finally got an eyeful, he cried out and backed off. "Shit! Sorry, Locke."  
  
Locke rolled over and blinked sleepily. "What the hell?" he mumbled.  
  
"Looks like we passed out in the same bed. Er, pardon," Jean said. It took him a moment to remember where they were, but then he spotted the bird's-egg blue walls, the horrible black furniture. They were in Tal Verrar, and if the opened bottles of wine standing on the horrible black table were anything to go by, they'd had one hell of a drunk on the previous evening. Something seemed off, but he couldn't pinpoint it, as muzzy as he was. "I think we're hung over," he added.  
  
"I feel like it," Locke said. He sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He made a face at how Jean was hunched over, crossing his arms over his crotch, but then shrugged. "Feel like I've slept forever. Like I lost a day."  
  
"Somehow you've said exactly what was on my mind," Jean said, and then shook his head. They'd spent too much time together, and that happened a lot. More importantly, however, he really had to pee.  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are sooo appreciated! Please leave the love everywhere in yuletide. (As for me, you can even tell me what I got wrong! I love it all.). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, recip. I tried really hard to write 'shippy Jean/Locke so I hope I managed to do their bond justice? And I apologize that Calo and Galdo were included only in name and spirit. I could not possibly have captured their wackiness, let alone their deeper sides, and I admire anyone who can! Thanks to my beta whymzycal for the encouragement and work. <3


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